


My World Split in Two

by Katherine_C



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD Sherlock, Paralysis, Rehabilitation, SCI
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7794466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine_C/pseuds/Katherine_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is shot by Mary and John tries to save him by all means. Can Sherlock cope with the new way of life, while his worst nightmare is looming?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fanfic. Comments and kudos are very appreciated as they can keep me writing!  
> I don’t personally own any of the characters. But if you would like to post my story elsewhere, please just let me know. Thank you:)  
> Just so you know, English is not actually my first language. So please feel free to point out mistakes, and let me know if you'd like to read more!
> 
>  
> 
> I have to apologize and warn you that I will not continue on this fic. Here's the thing, I don't ship Johnlock anymore, not after what John did to Sherlock in TLD. I see it now: they're never lovers, not even friends or family. In TLD Moffat is basically saying, hey everyone, this is what you do to your family. Beat 'em up.
> 
> I'm sorry. I personally see the show and fanfiction as the same thing, so I simply can't imagine John loving and caring for Sherlock when he in fact is a psycho and beat the crap out of Sherlock. I did write up another fic about the beating. If you're just as angry as I am, please check it out.
> 
> I know what I said about perfecting their relationship, and I truly blame myself for not being able to see the fact that there is never a relationship. But I'm not going to delete this fic cuz I really put a lot into it and I want to keep some memory of the ship, so if you are uncomfortable with abandoned fics please don't start reading it. Still thank you all for your support all along, and really I'm sorry times a million for leaving this undone.

Pain. Cold. Blood.

Those were the only three things he felt when he was shot. A hole ripped through him, massive internal bleeding. His brain figured out in three seconds that the only way to save himself was to lie still and control the pain.

But he couldn’t. When he saw the face under that mask, he was surprised, confused, and hurt. His best friend’s wife was a murderer. All the clues, the case, Magnussen, none of that made any sense any more.

“Sherlock?” John left Janine’s body and rushed all the way upstairs after hearing the second gunshot. “Jesus. Sherlock!”

“John,” he felt someone kneel to his side. Tears hazed his vision and he could barely hear himself or feel John’s hand on his body. The pain felt like splitting him apart, but there was more.

“I…I can’t feel my legs,” he whimpered. Now he could feel one of John’s hands holding his shoulder and the other pressing on his wound, but below that, nothing.

“What?” John’s medical instinct forced him to immediately hold Sherlock still. He sought around the room for help, but even Magnussen was nowhere to be seen. “All right. Just hold still. You’ll be fine,” John released Sherlock’s shoulder to pinch his lap. No reaction. And even in that second, Sherlock’s body trembled with pain. John knew what the meant. The bullet had most certainly struck his spine and even the minimum movement during a spinal shock could cause paralysis. John rode onto Sherlock’s laps and firmly pressed his upper body against the floor. “Stay with me and try to stay still. You’re gonna be fine.”

“I can’t—” Sherlock wheezed out. The room blurred and began to spin. The pain was about to shut him down.

“Damn it,” John felt the blood between his fingers and under his knees. Without enough pressure applied to the wound, Sherlock was bleeding out dangerously fast. He looked pale as paper and started to come quiet. “Don’t—” John shook his head. “Stay with me. Sherlock!”

Sherlock blinked one last time. The pain, the cold, the blood were all fading away.

John quickly moved off unconscious Sherlock and focused on his vitals and the bleeding wound. Tears filled his eyes as he felt Sherlock’s heart beating slower and slower. That was when he heard footsteps. A team of paramedics knelt around John and Sherlock as one of them tried to get John away from Sherlock.

“No I’m a doctor. I can help!” John kept firm pressure on the wound. “He’s AB positive. Careful he’s in spinal shock.”

“He’s going into respiratory arrest. Intubate now.”

“BP’s dropping. Get an IV started.”

“Let’s get ready to transfer,” a paramedic commanded. John pulled back as they slid the backboard under Sherlock. He was losing blood more quickly than he was given it.

“On my count, one, two, three!” they lifted Sherlock up onto a trolley and loaded him into the ambulance. They let John follow them in before closing the door. A girl kindly gave him an aseptic towel to dry the blood on his hands.

John sat down, taking Sherlock’s hand in a firm grip as the ambulance raced with the siren wailing. Sherlock was put in a neck brace and tied to the trolley by two belts. One paramedic was applying advisable pressure to the wound and another was bagging him rhythmically. John tried to ignore all of that and focus on his best friend’s paper-white face and blood-stained bare chest. Something inside of him seemed to be ripped away from him and he was hollow. The last time he’d felt like this was when he thought he’d lost Sherlock forever in the detective’s faked suicide. But it was not a game anymore. This was real, as real as back in Afghanistan. He’d never thanked God for bringing Sherlock back and now all he could do was pray to God.

Sherlock’s BP dropped to gravely low that it set off the alarm. He needed blood, not the fluid that diluted his blood. John closed his eyes in the beeping noise and felt something warm stream down his face. He stroked Sherlock’s pale cold arm, whispering, “Hold on Sherlock. We’re almost there. We’re almost there…”

A sudden screech of the brake shook John out of his emotion. The ambulance door slammed open. John was pushed out of the vehicle as two doctors came rushing to them.  
“34-year-old male, GSW to the upper abdomen, rate 130, BP 83 over 60 still dropping…” As the paramedics filled the doctors in, a hand grabbed John’s arm and tried to pull him off Sherlock, “I’m Dr Grey, sir. We got him.”

John wouldn’t let go, “I’m a doctor. He’s my-he’s my boyfriend.” John knew if he didn’t say so he would be shut out of the OR door like an outsider. He deserved more than that.

Dr Grey shot her eyes into John’s and gave a quick nod, “OK, let’s get him upstairs.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the mistakes in chapter1! I've corrected them already. Hope you enjoy this chapter :)

John had no idea for how long the surgery went. He just sat by Sherlock, hands in his curls, staring at the pale shinny face with an ET tube poking out from the mouth corner. Until Dr Shepherd the neuro surgeon was paged for a consult. “L1 shattered and the left fragments in the spinal canal,” she looked worriedly at the X-ray. “I need to go in there.”

“I don’t see any residual bleeding,” Dr Grey assured. “You’re up.”

“Definite CSF leak,” said Dr Shepherd as she exposed the spinal cord. “We’ll need to remove the entire vertebral body to decompress the spinal cord.”

“But he’s been under too long, after this massive blood loss,” Dr Grey queried.

“If we close him up and put him in a brace, he wouldn’t be completely decompressed, risking paralysis,” Dr Shepherd insisted, looking at John.

“Do the surgery,” john was well aware of what Sherlock would want. But the sudden ECG alarm cut in.

“He’s fluid overloaded. His heart can’t take it,” said Dr Grey.

“Try decreasing the anesthesia,” Dr Shepherd ordered.

“It’s already the minimum dose,” the anesthetist warned.

“We’re still risking heart failure. Just do it!” Dr Shepherd frowned.

A few minutes later, Sherlock’s vitals stabilized. Dr Shepherd went on with the surgery as fast as she could.

But then the EEG alarm interrupted. It was active. Dr Grey suddenly froze and looked up at the monitor, “He’s in anesthetic awareness [1].”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Dr Shepherd blinked down at her hands holding the contractor. John examined Sherlock’s face—not even a twitch. His mind was awake but his body wasn’t.

“John?” Dr Shepherd’s voice pulled him back. She took a deep breath, “There’s no turning back. I have to keep going.” Her eyes watered, but firmly drilling into John’s.

Dr Grey frowned Dr Shepherd, astonished. John’s gaze roamed over the OR—the most familiar place in his life, and he remembered the only and the best thing he’d been doing—save lives, no matter whose or what.

“OK,” he answered quietly, staring back at Dr Shepherd in the eye.

“Push 15mg midazolam,” Dr Grey told the anesthetist before taking over the contractor. But John knew the drug could do nothing except cause a short-term memory loss. John wished he could do something to help Sherlock with the pain—even a little bit. He remembered cutting off a soldier’s leg without anesthesia on a panzer back in Afghanistan, but at least that man got to scream the hell out of himself and eventually pass out.

The surgery continued quicker than ever, whiles every cut, every ligation, every stitch, was extreme torture. Sherlock had no choice but to embrace the agony that was tearing his soul and flesh apart. It was pain beyond imagining, pain past endurance.

Sherlock’s eyes cracked open. He felt like chopped in half from the waist down that he barely felt the breathing tube down his throat pressing air into his lungs. He bolted straight up, pulling the tube out of his airway and choked on nausea, coughing and dropping onto the floor. He wheezed to catch his breath, surprisedly finding himself intact in all the clothes he’d worn when he was shot. He stood up and observed around the OR.

No. it doesn’t make any sense. Sherlock’s eyes widened at himself—a body—on the table, exactly the way it was, and John sitting by, focusing on the surgery.

John couldn’t see him. Nobody could see him.

Sherlock was almost to believe the impossible because he had nothing else to believe. He knelt down, gazing at John. The doctor worriedly furrowed his brow, dark eyes so concentrated.

“John,” Sherlock opened his mouth, his voice shaking. “Stop. Please. Stop it…” He choked on tears, hands on the floor. He wasn’t sure why to do this. The pain was already gone, and he just cried and trembled on the floor.

“John, please,” he pleaded again. “Don’t leave me…” that was it. He couldn’t leave them behind—John and his own flesh.

It was fear of DEATH.

John couldn’t hear him. Nobody could hear him.

 _I’m dead._ Sherlock forced himself up, and wandered out of the OR. The corridor was full of people—real alive people. A married doctor was having an affair with a nurse; an intern in the middle of his 48-hour shift was to blame for losing a patient; a single mum was waiting for her 6-year-old son in surgery and her sitter just texted her… Sherlock could make fun of any of them, yet he felt so vacuous that he started to run.

Sherlock ran down a few floors to the labs and cracked the door open. An intense pain suddenly spread from his waist to legs. He leaned against the table and looked down and saw the most frightening scenery that he would never forget. His legs started to break into glass pieces and drop into a pile as he fell down onto the floor and cringed. The pain pushed into his chest and squeezed his insides, as if ripping him in half.

“Well well, here we go again,” Moriarty’s sissy-pitchy voice came close. “It just keeps happening here. I like it when my brain flows out. Just to clean it out.”

“You never felt pain did you?” Sherlock raised his head as tears filled his eyes. “Why did you never, feel, pain?”

“You always feel it Sherlock. But you! Don’t! Have to! Fear it!” Moriarty yelled out.

“You know it, don’t you,” he pressed near. “That wife…You’re letting him down Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger.”

“Argh…” Sherlock groaned and screwed his eyes shut. The cold floor, the high-pitch voice, the pain were all leaving him.

That was when he smelled a perfume which couldn’t be more familiar. Sherlock opened his eyes, felling the pain easing.

“Mary?” he struggled up, with his legs back. The lab was gone and it was all bright white. A woman in a long purple dress appeared from the light.

“Janine,” Sherlock mumbled, observing her. “You’re dead.”

She nodded with a light smile but didn’t answer.

“Am I…Dead?” Sherlock tried to sound calm, confused.

“Not yet,” Janine gave another warm smile, sounding beautifully soft. “You shouldn’t have lied to me. We could’ve been friends.” Sherlock couldn’t help but gaze into her eyes.

“Goodbye, Sherl,” she leaned forward and left a kiss on his cheek, and then walked away. Sherlock appreciated her figure until it faded into nothingness.

 

“BP’s over 100,” Dr Grey warned. “Start him on levo.”

“Once I decompress the spinal cord, it should get better,” Dr Shepherd frowned, stopping to take a breath. “Micro Penfield 4 please. Just a few more—”

The ECG alarm struck again. “He’s in v-tach, rate of 150. Paddles!” Dr Grey immediately took the paddles from her resident. John stood up tensely.

“No! No paddles,” Dr Shepherd looked up. “His spine is completely unstable and exposed right now. if you shock him, he’ll move and he will be paralyzed. You’ll undo all my work.”

“John?” Dr Grey turned straight to John.

John hesitated. Back in the fields they’d cut off legs even when they could had been kept, to save lives. But this was different. Sherlock would want to…

“V-fib! We have to shock him now!” Dr Grey shouted.

 _Of course it’s different. It’s Sherlock, my best friend._ John nodded firmly, “Shock him.”

“Clear!” John subconsciously pulled back, hearing Dr Shepherd cursing. Sherlock’s body arched with the current through his heart. John forced himself not to picture the shattered spinal cord like the many he’d seen before.

It was over. Sherlock was paralysed.

[1] Anesthesia awareness, also referred to as accidental awareness during general anesthesia (AAGA) or unintended intra-operative awareness, is a potential complication occurring during general anesthesia where the intended state of complete unconsciousness is not maintained throughout the whole procedure. It can occur either because of failure to deliver sufficient anesthetic medication to the patient's body, or because of individual patient factors that mean the patient is resistant to what would normally be an adequate dose of anesthetic medication.


	3. Chapter 3

“John! How is he?” Greg stood up from one of the hard seats in the waiting area. Even the half cup of coffee couldn’t erase the tiredness and concern from his face. But John saw more of an anxious hope in his expression that seemed so familiar—hope that families expect from doctors. John himself was already exhausted and the surgical gown felt so heavy on him.

_It’s one of those bloody days._

“He’s stable,” John found his own voice hoarse and cleared his throat. “He’s stable now. there was a lot of bleeding but we had it under control.”

Greg sighed in relief hearing Sherlock was alive. That was the first step.

“But the bullet had struck his L1 spinal cord,” John found himself surprisingly calm, ripping the hope away from the family. “We did everything we could, but the damage was done. Now it’s hard to know how much—if there’s any sensation left from the waist down,” John finished talking in a shaky voice, unable to look up at Greg as the inspector laid a hand on his shoulder.

_He’s not the family. I am._

“Can we see him?” Greg asked in a comforting whisper.

John took a deep breath and nodded. Greg followed him down the corridor.

 

The recovery room was almost empty as it was past midnight, so the privacy curtains between beds were pulled back. In one of the beds, Sherlock lay completely flat with the bed rails pulled up to be safe. His head was held by a neck brace and his face was as white as the dotted hospital gown that disappeared into the white sheet cover his waist. Wires stuck out of the gown ending up into a twelve-lead ECG monitor. The IV in his right arm was connected to a unit of blood while the one in his left arm was attached to morphine, and a bag of antibiotics was dripping down into the central line placed in his shoulder. John couldn’t help imagining the electrode pads on his chest and the drain inserted into his abdomen and the catheter connecting his bladder to a bag of urine…

John sat beside the bed, reaching over the rails to take hold of Sherlock’s left hand, which twitched slightly in John’s. John gazed at Sherlock’s face covered with an oxygen mask that misted and cleared with his unsteady breaths.

“The anesthesia’s wearing off. He’s in a lot of pain,” John could barely hear his own voice as Greg pressed near.

“Do you need anything mate?” Greg asked quietly.

“No. thank you Greg,” John looked up at him.

“Then I’m off to the station. I’m on his case. I’m one phone call away if you need me.”

Staring at Sherlock, a moment of rage crossed John’s mind. “Greg?” he stopped the inspector at the door and gave him a firm nod. “Find this son of a bitch.”

“I will,” Greg assured and left. John watched him walk back into the corridor before his phone rang. It was Mary.

“How is he?” she sounded as worried as Greg did.

“He’s stable. Don’t worry,” John comforted his wife, as well as himself maybe.

“Do you need me there?” Mary sighed worriedly.

“No. I’m fine. You’re pregnant. You can come in the morning.”

“Fine. Give my love to him. I love you.”

“I will. I love you too,” John hung up. He knew that with the medication and anesthesia, Sherlock wouldn’t be lucid any time soon. And Greg must have informed everyone while waiting and would update Mrs Hudson now.

John leaned forward to reach again for Sherlock’s hand and gripped it. This time Sherlock’s hand moved and slowly wrapped around his, as if trying to grip back. John unbelievingly fixed his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s lashes fluttered as he gave a subtle whimper behind the mask.

Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes burst open. He wheezed horribly for oxygen as groans formed rapidly in his throat. His neck arched a tiny bit in the brace and his entire upper body trembled attempting to pull toward John.

“Shh, Sherlock, try to hold still,” John immediately clenched Sherlock’s hand and stood up, turning to push a button on the morphine injector. He turned back and gently placed his other hand on Sherlock’s right shoulder. “I know it hurts, but you need to stay still okay?”

A low whine followed by racking sobs echoed behind the oxygen mask. Sherlock’s body trembled out of motion and fell flaccid again. His eyes rolled back and eventually flattered shut..

“Relax, Sherlock. It’s okay now,” John gently turned Sherlock’s motionless hand and massaged the knuckles. “I’m right here. I’m right here…”

 

John had no idea for how long he watched the unsteady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and kept checking his unstable vitals that nearly set off multiple alarms, until he heard footsteps approaching him.

He turned in his seat and looked up, “Mycroft.”

“Dr Watson,” the older Holmes stopped 6 feet from the bed, leaning elegantly on his umbrella, looking away. “I’m aware that my brother is highly unlikely to walk again.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

John opened his mouth, wordless and surprised by the way the Mycroft was looking at his brother. It was obvious looking from the side of his face that his chin was trembling slightly and his brow frowned in deep concern. His eyes glistened but it could be John’s illusion. John had never seen so much emotion in this brilliant machine belonged to the British Government. Mycroft did care for Sherlock, after all.

“He’s in good hands,” John simply said quietly, turning back to hold Sherlock’s hand.

“He is,” Mycroft finally turned to face John, wearing back his usual indifferent expression. But this time John noticed a tiny trace of trust and respect.

“Now if you will excuse me, I have an important business to attend,” Mycroft lifted his umbrella. “See you very soon, Dr Watson.”

John stared vacantly through the glass door at the tall black figure and listened to the sharp deliberate steps trail off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I will only be able to update at weekends since school has started. But I will keep writing and finish what I’ve started. Hope you enjoy my updates!

John finally fell asleep after Sherlock was transferred back to the general ward, and he woke up at noon, finding Sherlock staring at him.

“How are you feeling?” John blinked away the sleepiness in his eyes.

“Paralysed, obviously,” Sherlock raised his head in the fuzziness caused by morphine. “Any chance in recovery?”

“It’s—hard to say. We still need to get an MRI after—”

“I want the truth, John. I trust you with your professional judgment.”

“Very small.”

Sherlock fell back in bed and sighed, blinking away. He clenched his fists and pushed into the mattress beneath nothingness.

“Listen, um…” John looked up at Sherlock, unsure to ask. “Do you remember anything after you—when you were in surgery?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head and frowned in confusion. “Am I supposed to?”

“No, course you’re not. You were drugged out,” John smile din relief. “Do you know who shot you?”

“No. He or she was wearing a mask,” Sherlock lied without thinking. He had to protect his best friend’s wife, despite all the pain she’d caused him, at least until he finds out why.

“And Magnussen?”

“He got away,” Sherlock fell back to sleep, probably because of the morphine, or that his mind was tired of the painful memory.

 

The next few days were for the visitors. Sherlock was asleep most of the time, and John never left his side doing the nurses’ work. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and Mary stopped by everyday; old clients filled the room with flowers; and John refused all the fans and reporters.

On the fourth morning Mycroft finally showed up again with his parents. The flooded to Sherlock while Mycroft stopped at the door, holding up his umbrella.

“Oh Sherlock, my boy!” mummy leaned in and hugged Sherlock in the shoulder, leaving a kiss on his forehead. John found it somehow amusing that Sherlock was well asleep due to morphine and looked so peaceful on his side surrounded by protective cushions, like a baby. It made John wonder about Mycroft’s timing.

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft motioned John to come out.

“You took your time,” John spoke once they were out on the corridor.

“It is of national importance. I said very soon and here I am, to inform you that we do have Magnussen under interrogation as he has faced the shooter.”

“That’s not what Sherlock said,” John shook his head in confusion. “He said the shooter was wearing a mask and Magnussen got away.”

“I must remind you that my brother can be a tricky liar,” Mycroft frowned at John’s innocent confusion. “Magnussen’s PA was killed only because she’d identified the shooter, so did Sherlock. I’m afraid he’s protecting the shooter.”

“But why? He’s Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?”

“I’ll leave you to it, John. We both want justice for Sherlock,” Mycroft turned and met his parents coming out of the room.

John watched the three of them leave. He couldn’t remember the last time Mycroft had called him by his first name. He knew both Holmes weren’t good at emotion, and he was somehow uncomfortable that Mycroft was sensitive about he and Sherlock’s emotional connection.

John went back into the room finding a resident reducing Sherlock’s morphine dose. He nodded at her.

“MRI at 1 pm,” she gave a polite smile. “Dr Shepherd said he’s stable enough now.”

“Thank you,” John sat at Sherlock’s bed as the resident smiled and left.

 

Sherlock awoke at noon. He raised his head to see John, wincing at the pain in his abdomen.

“Less morphine,” John explained. “We’re getting an MRI this afternoon.”

Sherlock gave a rigid nod. John looked down at his hands, not sure to bring it up.

“Sherlock,” he called and the detective’s sharp eyes caught his. “What you said before, about the shooter—”

“I told you he or she was wearing a mask.”

“Except he or she wasn’t. Why are you lying?”

Sherlock frowned slightly and then rolled his eyes, “It’s Mycroft isn’t it.”

“He’s worried about you,” John only got another glare from Sherlock. “It’s important to let us know who shot you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t answer but looked down at his own legs under the sheet. It seemed they didn’t belong to him any more, and he couldn’t even feel what he was sitting on. Below the endless throbbing piercing through him was hollow.

You don’t tell him. You don’t tell John.

“Hello,” the knock on the door snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. John turned and looked up, “Greg.”

“How are you doing, Sherlock?” Greg asked with a warm smile.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered without opening his eyes.

“Thanks for coming, Greg,” John checked his watch. “Lunch?”

“Yeah sure,” Greg agreed.

“Do you want anything to eat?” John turned to Sherlock who shook his head, and patted his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

The canteen was quite busy at noon with many doctors grabbing a quick lunch. It reminded John of his med school years.

“So, anything with the case?” John took a bite of his sandwich.

“So far not a clue,” Greg shook his head sadly.

“Mycroft’s got Magnussen and he thinks Sherlock’s protecting the shooter.”

“Protecting the shooter? Why?”

“Protecting someone, maybe. He’s not telling me who shot him,” John shook his head and sighed. “I just want to make the bastard pay for what he did to Sherlock, whoever it is.”

“I know, John, I’m doing my best,” Greg gave a serious, reassuring look.

 

John returned to Sherlock’s room at around 12:50 and a young female nurse came out to him, smiling.

“He was just asking for you, and I figured you might wanna take him. He’s prepped,” she sounded efficient and delightful. “He learns quick. In less than twenty minutes he’s sitting upright on his own.”

“Thank you,” John nodded to her and she smiled back.

John walked into the room and found Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs dangling down and his upper body trapped in a TLSO brace which seemed to irritate him.

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock scowled at John. “It’s so tight that I can’t move the only thing I can move.”

“You can still move your arms,” John smirked. “It’s to protect your spine. If you want to be up and moving, you’ve got to wear it.”

“What’s the point of protection if I can never move my legs again?” Sherlock asked quietly, voice more pleading than complaining.

“I’m not lying to you, so we’re going to find out if you can,” John pushed over the wheelchair. “And however it turns out, you need to take care of yourself. This is what you can do and it matters.”

A moment of sorrow clenched Sherlock’s heart and he grasped the mattress beneath him. John is telling me to live on my own when he goes back to Mary and their new baby and everything returns to ‘normal’.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

John leaned forward and helped Sherlock put his feet onto the plates. Then he carefully lifted Sherlock into the chair, grabbed a blanket from the bed and spread it over Sherlock’s half-bare legs. John made sure Sherlock was comfortable before wheeling him out of the room, and they headed to Radiology.

After settling Sherlock down in the MRI machine, John went to join the doctors.

“The vertebras are healing just fine,” Dr Shepherd said.

“Is it complete or incomplete?” John asked tensely.

“I—don’t see any residual adhesion,” Dr Shepherd drilled her eyes into the screen. “It’s a complete injury. I’m sorry John.”

John shook and lowered his head. He grasped the edge of the desk and supported his weight, taking deep breaths. A few months ago he’d been celebrating the biggest day in his life with the two people he loved and cared about most. Now one of them was in a wheelchair for life, and he blamed God for that because he had no one to blame.

His phone rang him out of his thoughts. It was Lestrade.

“Hello?” John stepped out of the room.

“Can you come over to the station now?” Greg asked infirmly.

“I can’t. Sherlock’s in—why?”

“It’s Mary. She’s asking for you.”

“What? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s—Can you just come over, mate?”

“Yes, yes of course. On my way,” John hung up, turning back to the doctors. “I’ve got to see my wife. Can you—”

Confusion and doubt flashed over Dr Grey’s face, but then an understanding look. “Yes, sure. I will take him back. Don’t worry,” she gazed at John with her grey warm comforting eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should say again that comments and kudos are always appreciated! Please be critical about my work and feel free to correct mistakes and give suggestions. Also please let me know if you like my story :)

“What’s going on?” John hurried into New Scotland Yard. Greg was waiting for him at the door.

“Magnussen’s dead,” Greg handed John a folder. “Mary shot him in the head, daylight murder.”

John stared up at the inspector, unable to form a word.

“She confessed to murdering Magnussen, Janine and Sherlock, handed in her files, and just kept asking for you,” Greg laid his hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, mate.”

John gripped the folder. He felt nothing. His numb feet dragged him towards the interrogation room. He almost tripped at the door, staring at handcuffed Mary, not knowing what to say.

“John, sit,” spoke Mary, sounding calm—almost cold.

John walked to the table, pulled out the chair and sat opposite Mary. Her hand pressed on his as he intended to open the folder, “if you love me, don’t read it in front of me.”

John froze, feeling the soft hand of his wife’s, the hand he’d held at Sherlock’s grave, the hand he’d took dancing to Sherlock’s music at their wedding, the hand that had raised the gun towards Sherlock.

John drew his hand out of Mary’s, “then you answer me one question, no more lies. Are you the psychopath that almost killed my best friend?”

“Yes, I am.”

Mary’s face looked so indifferent—cold, plain, no expression, not even a blink. John gazed at this woman’s face, a murderer’s face, the face that had got him overwhelmed first time he’d seen it, the face that he’d kissed over and over, the face that Sherlock had faced along with a gun.

The he opened the folder. First were investigations on the shootings, including Mary standing by dead Magnussen with her hands up, and the pool of Sherlock’s blood in the office. Guns, bullets, fingerprints flashed before John’s eyes. He knew Sherlock would’ve done better than Scotland Yard. But John couldn’t go there any further with a blank and trembling mind.

He finally got to Mary’s files—everything of her past. She was a CIA agent, resigned after miss killing hundreds of civilians in a mission, starting all over in the UK. But Magnussen had been there to reveal her secret.

“So you killed him? It’s too late. You’re brought to justice,” John slammed the folder closed, glaring at her.

“CIA will honour me, for Magnussen was one of their arch enemies,” she answered with insidious pride.

“Why me? Why Sherlock?”

“I didn’t want to kill him, but he found out and I kept him quiet. I wanted to bury my past. Life with you was—” she paused, showing a tiny trace of emotion. “I didn’t want to leave you. But when I knew they had Magnussen and he would turn me in, I chose to return to my mission with honour. At least in CIA, I don’t have to be a murderer any more.”

“You ARE a murderer,” John said quietly.

Mary didn’t answer. She pushed to John a paper—divorce agreement, “I’m sorry, John, for all the hurt that I’ve caused you.”

John roamed his glare from his wife to the paper. He felt like a blind idiot as he found out he’d been fooled this whole time, married to lies. He was furious with this evil woman. He raged against justice for her acquittal. And Sherlock, the one he held dearest in the world, was broken.

John grasped the pen with shaky hand. Ink seeped his name into the paper, into his broken hollow heart.

John dropped the pen, rose to his feet, turned and left in silence.

 

“Oh, John!” John ran into Dr Grey in the hospital corridor. She stopped out of breath. “I can’t find him. He’s gone.”

“What? When?” John’s stomach clenched.

“About five minutes ago. My resident paged me. I don’t know where he went. He can’t even walk!”

“You left him with the wheelchair?”

“Most patients don’t just—” Dr Grey explained in confusion.

“Well Sherlock is not most people, just so you know.”

“Dr Grey!” a male resident ran towards them. “He’s not in the ER or the clinic.”

“Look again!” Dr Grey turned to John. “You try the surgical floor. I’ll try the roof.”

John went on the run, calling Sherlock on the phone. But he knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer if he was really up to something. He never should’ve left Sherlock and gone to that bitch. He couldn’t imagine his guilt if anything happens to Sherlock. He cracked open the last closet door hopelessly out of breath.

“Sherlock?” John exhaled in relief when seeing that familiar shadow cringing under a shelf. “Sherlock, are you okay? What are you doing here?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock mumbled without turning back.

“Let’s go back to your room then. You aren’t supposed to be moving around,” John took hold of his wheelchair.

“What’s the point! I’m already paralysed,” Sherlock clench the large wheels as he yelled out aloud. All the emotion he’d been holding back surged in him and he hated himself for letting it out.

“Don’t say that,” John retracted his hand and held Sherlock’s, squatting before him.

“It’s the truth,” Sherlock’s voice shook.

“Sherlock, there is nothing in this world I would not do to help you walk again. Do you understand?”

“I’m afraid, John,” Sherlock’s voice trailed into shattered whimpers as he clutched the hand around his own.

“I know. I’m here,” John whispered, taking hold of Sherlock’s arm. Their foreheads pressed together.

“John, I…” after a while Sherlock seemed to remember something that he didn’t know how to say. John turned round and sat down on the floor beside his chair.

“The reason why I’m here is because I’ve been here before. I remember when I was in surgery, I walked down this corridor,” he paused, frowning in confusion.

“Maybe it was just a dream,” John tried to avoid it. Sherlock couldn’t have remembered this. He couldn’t have remembered anything.

“No, not exactly. The people I saw—the cheating doctor, the intern and the single mum. They’re real.”

A moment of panic went through John’s mind, and Sherlock might have noticed that. “Something happened during my surgery, didn’t it?”

“You were in a cardiac arrest, and we fixed it. That’s all.” John half-told the truth intending to keep Sherlock from knowing—or remembering—anything about the anesthetic awareness. It could become a life-time trauma.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock rubbed his temple. “How did it get into my mind palace, somewhere I’ve never been?”

“Look,” John leaned to Sherlock. “You were drugged out. Your brain was probably piecing stuff together. It may be just a coincidence. You don’t even remember it clearly.”

“My mind palace never goes wrong,” Sherlock answered quietly.

“Hey, you found him,” Dr Grey emerged at the door.

“Yeah. We’re just gonna go back,” John stood up and pushed Sherlock out of the closet.

“No visible damage. Thanks to the brace,” Dr Shepherd led John out into the corridor after giving Sherlock a nuero exam. “What was he doing on the surgical floor?”

“He said he remembered,” answered John worriedly.

“The midazolam should have caused a memory loss, but—he’s Sherlock. He’s different from common patients.”

“Right. Thanks. I won’t let him do that again,” John assured.

Dr Shepherd smiled and left. John watched her white figure disappear into the end of the corridor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the changes in the beginning notes… I added something that I forgot in order to make it perfect:)

With the help of morphine, Sherlock slept soundly until the next morning. John managed to go home for the night as he convinced Sherlock was stable. Since the morphine dose was reduced at rounds, Sherlock woke up near noon, considerably lucid.

“When can I go home?” he grumbled.

John smirked, “When you get better.”

“I am better.”

“Medically speaking, when your incision is healed, when you rely no longer on morphine, when your WBC is down to normal without antibiotics, AND when your spine is stabilized. Just so I know, you’re still far from that.”

“And when will that be?” Sherlock scowled.

“A month, give or take.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and noticed the large bag John fetched from 221B last night, “I want my laptop.”

John took it out and placed it on the bedside table. He watched Sherlock shift into a comfortable position in bed and focusing on the screen. Then he left the canteen for lunch. He knew Sherlock didn’t want any food anyway.

The next few days passed just slightly. Sherlock was either sleeping or thinking or using his laptop. He’d barely eaten anything, but it didn’t seem much like a problem since he’d been given all those fluids.

Over a week after surgery, Sherlock was finally allowed to wheel himself around the hospital. John insisted on coming with him. They visited the morgue and the labs, went through the clinic and passed the ER. Sherlock dragged the large wheels awkwardly along the way, but he felt free to be moving again.

They finally stopped onto the front lawn. Sherlock braked his wheelchair next to the bench which John flopped onto. So they watched the patients and families and hospital staff all around. There were a dozen of wheelchairs in sight—and not just for the paraplegics.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Mary shot you?” John broke the silence.

“Because she was you wife,” a trace of surprise crossed Sherlock’s face, but John wasn’t sure if it was just his illusion.

“I signed the divorce papers. How did you—”

“I knew when Dr Grey said you had to see your wife. She has clearly changed her plan,” Sherlock stated plainly. “She knew Magnussen would turn her in and you would leave her, so she slew him anyway—shortcut back to her old life.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John said almost in a whisper.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Sherlock took a glimpse of the doctor, confused and almost embarrassed.

“Yes, I do. If I hadn’t married that murderer bitch, you wouldn’t be—” his eyes landed on Sherlock’s lifeless legs between the wheels. He fought back the tears that filled his eyes. “I’m such an idiot!”

“Not this time. You never knew who she really was and neither did I,” Sherlock turned to look at John infirmly. “Which is why this isn’t your fault.”

“Yes it is,” John inhaled deeply to calm his voice down. “It is. It’s guilt I’ll have to bear for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not true,” Sherlock slightly shook his head, blinking. “You deserve to be happy, John. You deserve much more than I can give you. And now…I can only be your burden.”

“Never,” John firmly looked up to Sherlock, who raised his head a little but was afraid to look back. Sherlock stared vacantly down at his own laps, his eyes filled with tears.

“Do you hear me? You’re never, ever my burden, Sherlock,” John curved forward and cupped Sherlock’s face, watching a tear rolled down the sharp cheekbones into his hands.

John slipped his hand down onto Sherlock’s on the wheel and gripped it. “It’s hard. It’s going to be, but you’re not alone. We will fight this together, all right?”

Sherlock sniffed and gave a slight nod. Then the two of them sat in silence and appreciated the sunset glow.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked as night fell.

“Starving,” John smiled and Sherlock raised his lips, lowering his head a bit. He turned the wheelchair and back into the hospital they went.

The food in the hospital canteen wasn’t so tasty but fresh. John ordered a cooked dish but Sherlock only went for some chips and water. Dinner was just an excuse for him not to go back to his boring room, after all.

“So, after all of this,” John knew they had to come to it eventually so he did. “Where are we—”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock’s eyes caught John’s sharply.

“It’s on the second floor—”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock’s answer was brief.

“There are wheelchair accessible houses, you know. I’m sure Mycroft—WE can afford one,” John immediately realized how impossible it was to talk Sherlock into accepting his brother’s help against his arrogance.

“I’ll be fine in Baker Street,” he declared plainly but determinedly.

By the time they’d finished their food and were ready to return, the canteen was getting empty. Sherlock was very mush exhausted, and his back ached from sitting up all day. But he insisted on wheeling himself back to his room despite John’s offer to help.

Sherlock locked the wheelchair next to his bed. He was supposed to pull himself up to sitting with his hands on the edge of the bed, but ended up falling back into the wheelchair with a twinge hitting his spine. He moaned, cursing to himself, his breath quickened.

“It’s alright. Let me help you,” John curved forward and caught Sherlock’s thighs. “Try again.”

With John supporting his useless but heavy legs, Sherlock managed to slant awkwardly onto the bed. It wasn’t until John adjusted Sherlock’s legs carefully not to stretch his spine that he realized how dead they were—pale, cold, no movement and no sensation. Sherlock was simply staring into the empty ceiling as he dragged them in position. He covered them with the sheet, pulling it to Sherlock’s waist. The he pushed the button and lowered the bed a little.

“Comfortable?”

Sherlock nodded. Tiredness was obvious behind his glistening eyes.

“I’ll just go to Baker Street to fetch some stuff, and update Mrs Hudson. I’ll be back in the morning. You’ll be okay?”

Sherlock nodded again. John retrieved his coat and bag from a chair, switching off the light as he left.

 

When John climbed up the stairs into the living room, a back figure in his armchair couldn’t be more familiar to him.

“Oh, John! How is Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson entered the room carrying a tray of teas.

“Dr Watson,” the figure turned elegantly.

“Mycroft,” John greeted briefly. “He wheeled around all day and has just dosed off in bed. Don’t worry.”

Mrs Hudson smiled in relief. Mycroft took a cup and sipped as John nodded to him, “What brings you here?”

“I assume Sherlock will be discharged soon?” Mycroft asked instead of a direct answer.

“Yes. I told him about wheelchair accessible houses, but he refused.”

“That conversation had already happened once, John. That’s why I’m here—to see what can be done in Baker Street. You’ll need quite a few rails and bars, and wider doors. The bath tub must be changed into a proper shower unit… Workers will be here tomorrow morning.”

“Am I the only one against this?” John queried. “What about the stairs? Sherlock won’t be comfortable in this flat and it’s not the best for his recovery!”

“Good or not, it’s his choice,” Mycroft answered quietly. “I trust you will take good care of him, Dr Watson.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I reposted this chapter and corrected its format adn some details. Thanks again for your suggestions. They really help me improve my work!

Sherlock walked down the surgical corridor in his mind palace—only there could his mind walk. It was dark at night, not exactly as he remembered. The intern on his shift passed with eyes closed. Sherlock’s mind was as tired as his body then.

Everything suddenly burst blazing white at the end of the hallway. When Sherlock’s eyes got used to the light, he saw a bride with a veil holding a gun towards him. She pulled the trigger before he could call her Mary. Then it was a twinge spreading from his spine to his abdomen, despite the fact that bullet had hit him in the front.

“Argh—” he screamed and fell, writhing on the floor. Blood was burning inside of him but freezing flooding out. He saw someone through tears that blurred his eyes, someone he NEEDED.

“John…” his words slurred as tears ran down his face. “Help me…”

John didn’t move. He just stared. His face was plain and his eyes were ice-cold—just like the floor and the blood beneath Sherlock that was about to shut him down along with the pain.

“Help me… Please!” Sherlock yelled out, straining the last of his strength. He could barely hear himself groaning with blood in his throat.

The pain disappeared all of a sudden. Sherlock kept trembling, unable to raise his head. That was when he noticed that the floor was blue—everything was.

“John,” Sherlock called to the surgeon sitting on a blue stool, dressed in scrubs. John didn’t seem to hear him.

“Why, did you not, save me?” Sherlock wheezed as more tears flooded from his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

A voice, from far away, approached him. A female voice…

“Sherlock!”

“Janine?” Sherlock wanted to get up but failed. He couldn’t feel his legs.

“Holmes!”

Sherlock’s eyes split open. He gasped and was just able to withstand the pain in his spine.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” a young female nurse was smiling down at him.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Sherlock tried to move but winced at the twinge in his back. He had to hold on to the bed rails to stop himself from groaning.

“Pain in your back?” the nursed frowned.

“A little. I’m—where’s John?”

“He’s not here. Do you want me to call him?”

“Yes, please,” Sherlock nodded his head, releasing the rail. The pain was so clear but easing.

“I’ll get you something for the pain and get Dr Shepherd. Sit tight and John will be here,” the nurse smiled and left.

Sherlock laid still, daren’t move a muscle. The pain throbbed tensely with his heartbeat. It could be because of yesterday, or infection in his surgery sites. Either way it wasn’t good. Then he thought of the bloody nightmare which didn’t make any sense, but trying to go back to it almost gave him a headache.

 

John hurried into the ward after he got the call in the hospital car park. Dr Shepherd’s voice became clear as he approached Sherlock’s room.

“What about here? Can you feel my finger here?” She asked as she poked her gloved finger around Sherlock’s mid-back.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, lying on his side with a nurse supporting his torso. “Not from there below, but it hurt.”

“Your injury is complete. You’re not supposed to have any sensation below that spot,” Dr Shepherd straightened up, giving John a quick nod. “How’s the pain now?”

“It’s a two or three,” Sherlock blinked up at John, whose eyes were permeated with worry. “It’s better now.”

“I say it’s just a neurological pain, not uncommon with your type,” Dr Shepherd stripped off her gloves, taking the chart as the nurse carefully turned Sherlock back. “I will prescribe pregabalin and order a physiotherapy for one pm. And if you feel anything uncomfortable, pain, pressure…just let me know, okay?”

Dr Shepherd put down the chart as Sherlock nodded his head. She smiled and left the room.

Sherlock then slightly closed his eyes and exhaled, “What happened during my surgery?” he asked bluntly.

“What? What are you—” John froze as Sherlock’s eyes shot up into his, catching the moment of shock and panic. “I told you that you coded on the table, nothing more.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock drew back his eyes and lowered them.

“Look, Sherlock, whatever you think you remember about the surgery, is not real. It doesn’t mean anything. So I need you to stop thinking about it, okay?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and John went on before he could cut in. “You said you trust with my professional judgment, and my conclusion is that you were simply hallucinating because of the anesthesia. So just let it go, and move on. You have a new way of life ahead of you, beginning with physiotherapy.”

“Will physiotherapy make me walk?” Sherlock asked quietly, raising his head to stare vacantly at John. John heard the quiet sombreness in his plain words, not sure of being glad that Sherlock put it for now.

“No,” he finally answered. “But it will help you build upper body strength, keep your muscles alive and keep you active. It’s for your future life, Sherlock, and it’s happening, whether you like it or not.”

 

Emma, the physiotherapist in her mid-twenties, was obviously pleased to see Sherlock sit upright with no trouble. But as he struggled into his wheelchair, his leg hooked onto something and he paused.

“The catheter…” Sherlock mumbled, pointing helplessly at the long clear tube going under his thigh ending up into a bag at the foot of the bed.

“I got it,” Emma quickly took off the bag, put it through under Sherlock’s leg and clipped it to his hospital gown on his waist.

“This is just temporary. You can use intermittent ones when you get home,” She threw a comforting smile at Sherlock, whom stared up at her with widened eyes, embarrassed and frustrated at the fact that he will never piss on his own again.

Emma drew back her smile, flipping her blond hair back behind her head, “Okay, let’s go.”

Sherlock lay silent and absentminded while John and Emma manipulated his body around him—not in the way he could feel it. Eyes fluttering shut, he let his mind drift into memories about the nightmare. _Why didn’t John help me? How was the pain so real? How did the corridor get into my mind palace?..._ Trying to make some sense out of it eased the boredom as he lay there doing or feeling nothing.

“That’s great, John, exactly like that,” Emma watched and encouraged John as he slowly bent and flexed Sherlock’s left leg. “Keep it slow. The aim isn’t to build up muscle. It’s just for movement.”

Hearing the physiotherapist’s delightful voice, Sherlock opened his lazy eyes to find John still kneeling on the floor beside him, and gazed blankly at John’s movement.

 _John_ _will get tired of this,_ Sherlock thought. _One day he will leave his disabled friend and find himself a new thrilling life, no matter what he says now. That’s what people do, because sentiment eventually fades away._

“Still doing okay?” John asked as he slowly straightened out Sherlock’s leg and laid the limb down against the mat beneath them.

“Pain in my back,” Sherlock lowered his eyes slightly. His spine ached from the weight lifting that made him sit in an odd angle before, though the pain wasn’t as bad as it was the other night.

“Can we call it a day?” John turned to Emma.

“Yeah, sure. Some muscle relaxant will help with the pain,” she answered with a cheerful smile as John helped Sherlock onto his wheelchair. “See you guys tomorrow.”

 

“You did good, Sherlock,” John looked down at Sherlock, who tilted his head to look up at John, pulling at the wheels laboriously. “How are you feeling?”

Apparently neither of them was used to this reversed position. Sherlock looked away and grumbled, “Bored.”

John sighed and looked down at Sherlock, “Well, you’ll be doing this for a long while now, and you’re well aware that it’s good for you.”

When the two approached the room, John was stunned by Mrs Hudson’s sharp delightful voice and a familiar figure standing with her at the door.

“Wait here Sherlock,” anger surged through him as John shot towards her—Mary the murderer—and pushed her against the wall.

“John!” Mrs Hudson yelled in a startled voice but John ignored that. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.

She raised her hands and, to John’s surprise, did not resist, “I’m flying back to the US tomorrow, and I thought—”

“What could possibly make you think I would want to look at you, utter prick, for one second?” John clutched her shoulders, eyes falling onto her enlarged belly as she shifted against the wall. He felt his hands loosening and eventually let go. He would never forget the first time he’d delivered a baby, and seeing his own triggered something deep inside of him.

“I just wanted to see if he’s okay,” Mary looked to Sherlock about 18 feet away, then back at her ex-husband, who stared and gasped, unable to form a word.

“Just go,” John finally said through his gritted teeth in a hoarse voice. “Don’t ever let me see you again.

Mary lowered her eyes and took a step back, “I never deserved you, but he does, always,” she turned round and walked way.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay and I reposted some of the previous chapters because of the wrong format. This chapter is a bit short…  
> I’m sorry that I might have to pause for a while, since I can hardly get my head around my studies these days and I might wanna start writing another short fanfic. But I’m definitely NOT going to leave their relationship unestablished. I can’t. So thank you all again for your support and please wait around. I’ll be back:)

John even felt a little bit unburdened after Mary had left. It was just him and Sherlock, busy with some straining but helpful physiotherapy. John was pleased to see Sherlock kept active and positive by physio and coping well with the back pain. But that was until the third week.

“Alright Sherlock, you’re doing great. Just bring your hands down to his hips John,” Emma instructed as she held and kept Sherlock’s leg in position in order for him to balance on a yoga ball. “I need you to keep your back as straight as possible, Sherlock. You need to put all your strength into supporting your own back. Muscles are very important.”

“It hurts,” Sherlock gritted his teeth as he tried to balance with less support on his back. John could feel the muscles tensing under his hands, and Sherlock started to tremble out of balance.

“Can you bring your support higher again, John?” Emma suggested with an encouraging smile. John hovered his hands around Sherlock’s mid-back and Sherlock leaned immediately into the support. His centre of gravity altered in a sudden and John’s support was clearly not ready for that. Sherlock slipped to his left side while the ball slipped to his right. His hip hit the floor first, then his shoulder and ribcage.

All of that happened within a heartbeat and in the next John dropped beside him, grasping his shoulder, “Sherlock! Are you okay??”

A shot of pain crept up Sherlock’s spine into his chest, ripping his already healing insides. He gasped. The floor suddenly felt ice-cold.

“Sherlock? Sherlock can you here me?” John shook him harder, which only worsened the pain.

“No…” Sherlock only managed a slurred groan, gripping John’s arm. He screwed his eyes shut, cringing in agony. The floor felt cold but dry… No blood this time…

“I’ll go get a morphine, and Dr Shepherd,” Emma jumped up in panic.

“And a gurney and an MRI!” John shouted behind her, ignoring the other few patients staring at them. “Easy, Sherlock. You’re going to be alright…”

 

“Is all clear,” Dr Shepherd looked up from the computer screen. “He fell off a yoga ball?”

“It was all my fault. I couldn’t support him,” John shook his head guiltily.

“The spine is perfectly alright. I don’t think it was high enough to cause any damage,” Dr Shepherd pointed out in confusion.

“He’s in pain,” John frowned. “There has to be something, not just the muscles. Neurological pain?”

“It’s possible,” Dr Shepherd agreed and stood up as the scan was completed. “Take him off the morphine and see if it comes back.”

 

Sherlock was trying to find his way back to his mind palace. He ran on the surgical floor once again. This time it was way brighter—bright enough to sting his eyes—and empty. The throbbing in his back never went away, but got stronger at some point. He stopped outside one of the ORs where the pain was the worst, and pushed through the door.

A few surgeons were working on a patient, and John was there, sitting by the head of the table.

“John?” Sherlock walked towards the doctor, and gasped at what he saw. He saw himself lying lifelessly on the table, and John cupped his head, concentrating on the surgery just like the other surgeons was. But no one seemed to see Sherlock standing there.

Sherlock collapsed when he saw the open incision. He couldn’t feel his legs. He didn’t know if they were there any more. Excruciating pain exploded in his spine, mashing his insides. He couldn’t feel his mouth to scream. He no longer knew where he was. He felt nothing beyond agony.

“Sherlock! Wake up!” John’s voice ripped through his ears.

“Wake up! You’re dreaming.” The pain gathered to one spot in Sherlock’s spine and he indistinctly felt his shoulder in a firm grasp.

Sherlock groaned. His eyes burst open, his lungs struggling for oxygen but every twitch in his muscles was painful.

“Breathe, Sherlock. Just breathe,” John placed an oxygen mask over Sherlock’s face, stroking his left arm gently. John looked worriedly at the monitor, startled by the sudden squeal. Sherlock’s heart accelerated and his sats were too low. Fortunately the alarm wasn’t long enough to call over the nurses. The oxygen mask misted and cleared rhythmically as his breathing steadied.

“It’s okay now. You were dreaming,” John removed the mask and kept stroking Sherlock’s arm.

“I was there again,” Sherlock whimpered, blinking back the tears in his eyes. “You were there too. I’m in pain…”

“Well the MRI is clear,” John avoided the subject. “You didn’t hurt your back.”

“It’s everywhere,” Sherlock lowered his eyes. That was when John noticed a slight reddish colour on his cheeks.

“Sherlock—” the doctor gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re warm,” John crouched and reached for Sherlock’s catheter bag. His brows furrowed deeply with concern.

“Urine’s dark and little,” John straightened up. “Hang in there. I’ll get a nurse.”

“Yes it’s a urinary tract infection,” Dr Grey informed John in the corridor, sounding calm and comforting. “It’s not very severe and we’ve started him on antibiotics. You caught it in time, John, or it could be worse.”

John gave a quick nod, “His pain is neurological and he’s remembering. He knew I was there.”

Dr Grey expressed a moment of shock, and then looked at John seriously, “You should tell him.”

“I can’t,” John frowned and shook his head. “I made the call. I can’t let him know that I caused him the pain and still left him paralysed…”

“There’s a chance that he will find out eventually,” Dr Grey pointed out. “It’s your choice, John. You know what’s best for him.”

“I can—I’m not ready for this,” John shook his head again and gritted his teeth.

“Then get yourself ready,” Dr Grey handed John the chart and left.

John returned to Sherlock’s room and laid the chart on the table. Sherlock was sleeping half on his left side, in an amount of supportive cushions. His chest rose and fell with his breaths, cheeks still red due to the fever and his curls rested softly on his forehead. John stared at his peaceful friend, and all the struggle and pain since Sherlock was shot emerged in his mind.

 _What have I done?_ He asked himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I’m back! Apologies for the delay and a big thank you to those who have followed and enjoyed my story! And I feel like making things straight before I continue:  
> Since I’m not a native speaker or a medical professional, my writing can’t be perfect. So I think I’ll be posting a beta version of the fic, means that I may go back and edit a few things—correcting mistakes or even changing the plot a bit. I don’t know what exactly is going to happen in the later chapters and I need to match the timeline to make it perfect. Are you all okay with that?  
> You’re absolutely free to give critical comments and suggestions. I really appreciate it when I can improve my writing in this way and share my Johnlock feels with you!

The infection went away fairly in two days, and Sherlock was back into his endless boredom. Physiotherapy was carried on, though they agreed on no more yoga ball would be included.

Another week later, Sherlock was finally qualified for discharge. After he’d got dressed in his coat and signed all the papers, Sherlock wheeled himself towards the hospital car park, and John followed carrying their bags. Mycroft had sent a car. Sherlock more or less accepted his brother’s help as he crawled into the seats in silence, because logically it would save him from sitting in the cold waiting for a taxi, but emotionally he really missed Baker Street, their flat, and lovely Mrs Hudson.

John found an envelope in the boot before putting the bags in. It contained leaflets of a private rehab centre and an appointment confirmation. On the inside of the envelope wrote “Look after him, Dr Watson”, which made John smile and shake his head.

The car pulled over in front of the dark green door. John retrieved their bags and opened the door. Sherlock drove the wheels up the neat ramp in replacement of the steps and through the door. Then he stopped abruptly at the stairs. Something clenched in his chest, but he ignored it and casted his gaze to the ground as John sighed and pressed near.

“Mycroft’s got another custom-made chair up stairs. Let me carry you,” John reached forward and placed his arm on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock blinked up at him and then wrapped his arms around John’s neck. John supported Sherlock’s waist with his right arm, his left arm under Sherlock’s legs, lifting him up. Sherlock was way lighter than John had imagined so he fell back and nearly lost balance.

“Christ, Sherlock. You need to eat,” John could feel Sherlock’s ribs pressing against his arm as he climbed up the stairs. There was no reply but Sherlock’s breath brushing his face. As he settled Sherlock down in the wheelchair, he heard a whisper from the detective:

“Thank you John.”

“You’re welcome Sherlock.”

The new custom-made chair was all black, lighter and smaller than the large silver one from hospital, and therefore was easy to control. Sherlock gripped and drove the wheels of his new chair, turned and stopped by his armchair.

“Oh Sherlock, you look better now don’t you,” Mrs Hudson entered the room laying down a tray of teas and biscuits, and gave Sherlock a warm but awkward hug despite his sitting position.

“I need a shower,” it took him less than a second to notice all the doorways made wider, the carpet removed and a few shinny bars installed as Sherlock wheeled himself to the bathroom.

The bathroom was almost twice the size as before so Sherlock could turn freely in the space after shutting the door behind him. A brand new toilet was installed closer to the walls with handles on them; the sink and mirror were lowered and Sherlock could easily roll in and fit his legs under the sink; the new bath tub was replaced by a small neat shower unit plus a leather padded shower bench. Sherlock locked his wheelchair next to the bench and struggled to get rid of his clothes. He’s spent the last week in hospital learning basic life skills yet was still fumbling like a baby. Then he transferred onto the bench and pulled the curtain shut.

It went a lot smoother as Sherlock turned the water on. It felt so good to be in the warm water again with everything easily in reach plus an extended shower hose. Back in the hospital he’d had a one-hour embarrassing shower with the help of a healthcare assistant and had got water all over the floor. Sherlock felt proud and confident for the first time after his injury because he was able to look after himself independently and privately. Sherlock actually felt like he was going to live on his own, and John would be able to move on, from his best friend disabled by his wife.

Sherlock let his thoughts float idly in the steam as he washed himself from head to toe, examining the new pink scar along his abdomen and chest, and his dead legs lulling to the wall. Finally Sherlock pressed the off-switch on the shower head, pulled the curtain and rotated his torso to reach for the sheet folded on the sink counter. He paused after drying himself up. It was obviously impossible to get dressed in a chair, and he wheel out of the bathroom completely naked, at least not with a lady out there. Then he remembered how the healthcare assistant had spread the hospital gown in the chair for him to put on, so he did the same with his sheet and wrapped it around his pelvis and then wheeled out.

John was standing in the living room and turned at the click of the door, “Sherlock you okay?”

“Yes. I’ll get dressed,” Sherlock turned his chair in the wide doorway.

“Need any help?”

“No thanks,” Sherlock didn’t bother to think about John offering to see his nudity. He was just tired of being manipulated like a puppet back in hospital.

Struggling into his trousers and dressing gown took fairly 30 minutes—less than half the time it’d taken first time he’d learnt to dress himself.

Sherlock transferred onto the couch effortlessly. Obviously John had unpacked their bags from the hospital, so he reached forward for his laptop, wincing a little at the stretch of the internal fixation in his spine, and then sat back and switched on the laptop.

“Physiotherapy starts tomorrow,” John waved Mycroft’s leaflet in his hand. “There’s a nice rehab centre not far from here and we won’t need to take a taxi. I’ve made an appointment for 9 am.”

Sherlock mumbled in reply. It wasn’t like he could go to a crime scene or chase a criminal in that time—not in the rest of his life in fact. His website had been almost silent since the world had learned the news that their only consulting detective was disabled, and no email came over the last month. Sherlock slammed shut his laptop, startling John to glance up at him. He spread himself down on the couch, closing his eyes slightly. What was the reason for living then? Straining himself with physio? That only reminded Sherlock how tired he was. He’d slept a lot to ease the boredom when he was in hospital, but sleep never seemed enough because any basic life task was tiring and frustrating for him. Sherlock exhaled slowly and drifted into a light and fitful nap.

Sherlock woke up finding himself covered in a blanket from the shoulder below. It slipped down along with his dead legs as he pulled himself up, fumbling for his wheelchair.

“Hey. You’re awake,” John came out of the kitchen. “Dinner?”

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that he was actually hungry. He needed to keep up the strength for physio and at the moment there was nothing to occupy his mind. He only got to eat, sleep and exercise for a long while from now on. How dull was that.

The food was nice—better that the hospitals, an obvious mixture of Mrs Hudson’s and John’s cooking.

After dinner John carried the plates to the sink, and Sherlock slowly followed him, observing the kitchen. The countertop was lowered and space was made under the sink. Why bother? Sherlock didn’t even cook.

“I think I can wash my plate,” Sherlock pressed near infirmly. John looked down at him, surprised, and moved a little so Sherlock could roll in under the sink.

When Sherlock opened the lowered cupboard to store the plate, he paused at the sight of a microscope—HIS microscope. It was clean and shinny. Then he turned to look at the clean and empty table.

“What have they done with my equipment?” he asked John.

“They were stored away during the rebuild. I think they’re right here…” John walked to the kitchen corner, opened a counter cabinet and took out a large box. “Here you go,” he laid it on the dining table.

Sherlock spent the next two hours arranging everything back into place. Then he just sat and stared, doing nothing. He had nothing to do. No case to solve hence no experience to perform. He sighed and sniffed, pulling and turning his wheelchair, spotting John at the door.

“Off to bed then,” John shook his head at the mess in the kitchen.

Sherlock wheeled past him without a word, straight into the bathroom to brush his teeth and catheterise himself. John came in just as he was transferring onto his bed.

“Strip off your clothes,” the doctor ordered. “I need to check your skin.”

A thread of affection seeped into Sherlock’s heart at the idea of John seeing and touching his body, and maybe that was why he obeyed. He struggled out of his trousers, lifted up his dressing gown, rolled over onto his stomach and lowered his pants. John carefully checked every inch of Sherlock’s back and buttocks and thigh, making sure there were no sores or ulcers in the skin.

“Ok,” John patted his shoulder and this time Sherlock felt it. He rolled back and fumbled the sheet over himself, leaving his legs out. John stood from the bed, grabbed the sheet and covered Sherlock’s legs. “There aren’t nurses here to check and turn you in the night, so whenever you wake up, remember to go to the bathroom and switch your posture in bed. Got it?”

“Yes, daddy,” Sherlock scoffed through his pillow.

“Right. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” John switched off the light and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock exhaled slightly, emerging himself in thoughts. He was pleased with what he could do first day home. They said living a life on your own was the best a paraplegic can do, and it was reassuring that he would get used to this life—life in a wheelchair, life with physio and workout, life without crimes…but for how long? How long before he hates it for boredom? How long before John gets tired of it and move on for new thrill?

And the dream, the one he’d had from night to night, almost an illusion when he fell off the yoga ball, it made no sense at all. Sherlock was afraid of the pain. No—he was more curious than afraid. Something did happen during his surgery, something John refused to tell, a missing piece in his mind palace. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, going from scene to scene: bullet, blood…blank…morphine, MRI, wheelchair, physio, wheelchair. They reminded him of nothing but the emptiness below his waist. He gave up.

Sherlock finally glanced up at the clock. It was well past eleven, so he rolled over to his right side and went to sleep.

 

John was woken by a screeching sound of the violin. He rubbed away the sleepiness from his eyes and sat up. It was 5:30 in the morning. What was Sherlock doing up? Was something wrong?

“Sherlock!” John shouted as he ran down the stairs. The violin ended in a short tune. For a split second John expected to see a tall figure turn with elegance and spin the violin, but instead Sherlock laid the instrument on his laps and dragged his left wheel to turn and face John.

“Is everything okay?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock turned back a little to write something on the music sheet. John noticed his body rigid and the slight tremor in his hands.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem like you’re in pain.”

Sherlock paused and bit his lip. The throbbing in his back was already easing, better than the pain that had waken him up. He’d had that nightmare again, exactly the same as it was in the hospital. Still, he had no idea why. He then decided there was no need for John to know, “I’m fine.”

John frowned in disbelief, “Sherlock.”

“Said I’m fine,” stubborn and imperious, Sherlock turned back, picked up the violin and went on playing to the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s finally a new chapter and it hasn’t been easy for me. My barriers have been the language, the medicals and the plot. I once wanted to give it up but I feel like it’s my responsibility and writing is learning. And your comments and suggestion are valuable to me.:)


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